(Once more, sorry this challenge is up late — vacation last week with poor Internet access had me unable to post the damn thing properly. But here it is! Don’t throw things!)

This week’s challenge is:

Write a story in 100 words. (Technical term: “drabble.”)

I don’t care what genre.

I want it to be a complete story. Beginning, middle, and end.

Not just a vignette — not just a snapshot of a scene.

And I want you to write with the explicit goal of making us feel something.

Joy, pain, fear, sorrow. Something. Some emotion.

In 100 words only.

You can write it at your blog, link back here — or, because the stories are short enough, feel free to write them write into the comment section below. (But do check your length. Again, stories of no more than 100 words.)

[…] Today’s challenge was a complete story in 100 words. It had to have a start, middle and end. It had to make you feel some emotion. I don’t know whether this does, but it sprang straight into my head. Maybe our lunch conversation, discussing Rory McIlroy’s split from Caroline Wozniaki, had lingered. […]

[…] TerribleMinds is a blog run by Chuck Wendig – He is smart, talented, and very potty mouthed. But his advice for anyone who writes is superb. If you haven’t checked him out and you don’t mind a few a lot of curse words, then you should. Check him out that is. […]

We sped along the dried-out riverbed toward Pont-Jacques. We stopped once, to give ammo to some teenage girls. They were pretty. They’d need it. Their fires would keep them warm, but they’d also mark their location.

“Icepick”, I finally said. “We can mark-up the gas, but with the profit, we’ve gotta give the water away for free.”

My father died twice today. I had just finished breakfast when his mother—my grandmother—called to deliver the news. “Calvin passed away this morning.” My mother and I cried; my friends came by with condolences. Hours later my grandmother called back; they turned off the machines but he was still breathing. Hope—I was happy. I thought it was a miracle. Before bed that night, my grandmother called again: “He is gone. I’m so sorry, dear.” That night I dreamt of aliens buried alive, choking on dirt, stretching their bony hands up through the earth, begging me to save them.

My lifetime of blisters, sprains, and callouses lead me to this dance, the solo to start my dreams coming true. The curtain rose to a full audience, my heart beating faster than their applause despite my stillness. The music started and the theater shook, not with nerves, but a tremor. The quake intensified and the set collapsed beneath the swaying lights. Screams overtook what should have been my cheers as the stage crumbled beneath my feet. The doctors said I’m lucky to be alive, but death would be kinder than useless legs and destroyed dreams. I had no life left.

I am not in any sense of the word a nurturer I tend to act before I think, and seldom think before I speak. After all, what the hell can they do to me, send me to another hell hole? Been there, done that. Don’t really care.
“She’s the best.” I heard through the wall.
“I don’t care, I won’t have a female on this trip.”
There are many things and even more people I don’t care for; but bigotry pisses me off more than any other single item on my long shit list. I knocked on the door.

I actually wrote 4 stories for this, but chose only one for entry. If you’re interested in the other three (which are sort of serialized together) and a debrief on the whole process, you can read all that here:

Waiting for a girl who’s got curlers in her hair
Waiting for a girl she’s no money anywhere
We get buses everywhere
Waiting for a factory girl
Waiting for a girl, her knees are much too fat
Waiting for a girl who wears scarves instead of hats
Her zipper’s broken down the back
Waiting for a girl, she gets me into fights
Waiting for a girl we get drunk on Friday nights
She’s a sight for sore eyes
Waiting for a girl, she’s got stains all down her dress
Waiting for a girl, my feet are getting wet
She ain’t come out yet

The blue eyes of the young man shone with great pleasure as he read the letter. He could barely believe that his dream was coming true,that his perseverance had paid off.

It was his second time to apply to the school. Last year,the school had rejected him and he had been devastated. But he was a resilient individual with a singleness of purpose that bordered on the manic. So he applied again.

This time, his application was accepted.

He finished reading the letter then immediately began reading it again.